It suddenly occurs to me that Yeogh Wough is a very odd name and must strike outsiders as very ugly. It has even something Chinese about it. His real name is Roland, and when he was very little and the pronouncing of an "r" was beyond him, he called himself Yoland and then Yo-Yo, and so it came to Yeogh Wough. It certainly does look very ugly and Chinese. I am sorry for that, because he not only made it my name for him, but his name for me, too. I am Big Yeogh Wough, and he is Little Yeogh Wough. It is laughable that he should be the little one, because he is much bigger than I am now, having grown to close upon six feet in height; but he still signs his letters "Little Yeogh Wough," and he says he always will, as long as we are both alive. The initials L.Y.W. are at the foot of this message that I am looking at now, saying that he is coming home. I am getting very hungry, but I will not begin dinner without him. He is bound to come within the next half-hour. I have worked out the trains with the utmost completeness dozens of times to-day. So has his father. So has his sister. I will get his photograph down from the top of the cabinet and look at it. It will help me to get through the last few minutes--or perhaps half an hour--of waiting. As I take down the photograph I knock off accidentally from the cabinet top a tiny newspaper cutting which I had put there in order that I might not forget it. It is only a cutting from a review of a book, which I have saved because of two lines quoted in it:-- "He needs not any hearse to bear him hence Who goes to join the men of Agincourt." I believe the lines are by a nephew of Mr. Asquith's. Anyhow, whoever wrote them, they have haunted me ever since I saw them two days ago. To join the men of Agincourt! What a glorious thing! When I was a little girl and learned first about Agincourt I used to thrill. Now it is the same. I felt suddenly an intense longing to go out myself and do something hard and fierce and dangerous. Oh, yes, I know so well that the man who dies in a trench or in a charge and who lies unburied or gets hurriedly laid away under two feet of casual earth, is grander and more princely than the king who dies in a stately bed in his palace and is carried to his tomb between packed throngs, standing with bared heads! In very deed he needs no hearse who goes to join the men of Agincourt. But let it not be my Yeogh Wough! Not yet! Not yet! But what am I thinking of? I am not afraid for him. He will be coming into this room in a moment, looking into my eyes with his wonderful brown velvet eyes that have always been so amazingly sad, considering the gaiety of his laugh, and of all his ways.